


Alternative Hypothesis

by Band_obsessed



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s06e09 Statistical Probabilities, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 04:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20539973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: Nine hundred billion. It’s a heavy thought, unbidden, one that momentarily staggers Julian, feet stumbling over his steps, knees buckling as he struggles to keep himself upright for whatever it’s worth. His step falters once more before he turns on his heel, crossing the promenade in long, quick strides, eyes fixed on Garak’s shop.Or, the missing scene from Statistical Probabilities.





	Alternative Hypothesis

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially gratuitous hurt/comfort. I got halfway through Statistical Probabilities and all I could think of was how much Julian needed a hug and then this was born.

Julian Bashir stumbles out of Quark’s, face the picture of abject defeat, shoulders hunched and fingers curled to greet the soft flesh of his palm, crescent moons pressed into his skin. The promenade swirls with life around him, shop fronts open, signs broadcasting their prices, showcasing their wares, hoards of people, officers and civilians alike, brushing past him with friendly glances, faces alight up with smiles, eyes wide and bright. _Nine hundred billion_. It’s a heavy thought, unbidden, one that momentarily staggers Julian, feet stumbling over his steps, knees buckling as he struggles to keep himself upright for whatever it’s worth. He no longer thinks it’s _worth _anything. He stills, scanning the crowd, the scene, and is overwhelmed by the pure and undeniable level of _existence _surrounding him, the animated joy of people, the hum and buzz of life. He wonders how many of these people will die, will become another number in the grand scheme of things, a name on a list in history books, a casualty report sent to Starfleet, a commiseration letter to loved ones. Julian’s stomach drops, heart stuttering, eyebrows tugged down and lips parted on a sharp intake of breath. His step falters once more before he turns on his heel, crossing the promenade in long, quick strides, eyes fixed on Garak’s shop. 

It’s a modest thing, really, tucked away with just enough light to be visible, no flashing signs or tacky displays. It’s peaceful and quiet, a few degrees warmer than the rest of the promenade and Julian ducks in through the door, the bell chiming above him. He lets the residual warmth dispel the cold ache of fatigue from his bones and he hears Garak call out from the backroom, no doubt occupied with a commission, not expecting further customers, especially not ten minutes from closing time. Julian doesn’t reply, not sure his mouth can form the words he wants to say, not sure he can _say _anything over than the jumble of numbers in his head. _Nine hundred billion_. He perches on one of the chairs, fingers tracing patterns across the soft material, watching the colours subtly change as he brushes across the fabric, trying to slow the thoughts in his head, reject the hypothesises, the theories, banish the statistics. 

“Ah, doctor,” Garak greets, standing in the doorway, a pleasant smile fixed on his face, and Julian bristles under the facade, chest tightening as he recognises Garak’s persona to be one of polite intrigue. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Julian blinks, index finger tapping out staccato rhythms on the fabric of the chair before curling inwards to press nail to palm, body thrumming with tension, the ugly feeling of undeniable defeat. _Nine hundred billion_. Julian idly wonders if Garak will be among them and a vision of his lifeless body flits across his mind, the breath rushing from him as he chokes. Garak is closer now, the smile from his face gone, replaced with a look of concern so open Julian reels, head spinning from the concoction of alcohol and the weight of his emotions, jumbled and surreal. Julian opens his mouth, blinks, closes it again, before standing abruptly, walking towards Garak so fast the room blurs in his peripheral vision, needing to ground himself, to feel something, _anything_. His hands collide with Garak’s tunic, fabric soft and delicate under his palms, a stark contrast to the hard ridges he can feel beneath the cloth, and Garak takes a breath, chest rising sharply. 

“Nine hundred billion,” Julian whispers, head falling forwards to rest against Garak’s shoulder with a soft thud, eyes closed as he runs the projections again, wonders who those nine billion are, how many he of them he knows, are his friends, how many he will personally mourn for. The thoughts are bitter and he winces, suddenly wishing he hadn’t left Quark’s, could order something to wash away the taste with, scrub the thought from his head. 

“My dear, I’m afraid you aren’t making much sense,” Garak murmurs, voice soft in a way Julian hasn’t heard in at least a year, maybe longer, and he nearly sobs with the comfort it provides, a balm over his aching body, something tangible, pure.

“The projections we made,” Julian starts, drawing in a shallow breath, “for the war,” he clarifies, eyes still firmly shut, ears trained on the muffled sound of Garak’s heart beating under his ribs. He counts the beats silently, fingers tapping out the steady rhythm against Garak’s chest, a welcome distraction. 

“You’re referring to your work with the other genetically enhanced individuals?” Garak asks after a pause, his own hands coming to rest on Julian’s waist, thumbs running over the faint protrusion of his ribs, hard underneath the soft skin. Julian nods against him, mouth parting to breathe deeply, relishing in the feeling of Garak’s cool skin against his lips. _Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven_. Garak shivers slightly as Julian exhales, the warm puff of breath more pleasant than it has any right to be. “And this nine hundred billion refers to?” He questions further, gently pulling Julian closer to his body when he feels him stiffen, sensing the distress radiating off his body, can almost scent it in the air. 

“The casualties,” Julian answers simply, voice flat, pressing his face farther against Garak’s neck, feeling the scales dig into the skin of his cheek, no doubt leaving indents should he pull back. They are both silent for a few moments, and Julian’s fingers curl into Garak’s tunic, still counting his heartbeats as the seconds pass. _Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty_. Garak’s hand fall from his waist to hold Julian’s shoulders, gently pushing the other man away from him, and Julian’s heart drops, words bubbling up in his throat, tongue moving too fast for Garak to understand anything but fragments. _Of course, he doesn’t want to listen to your predictions_, Julian mentally chides, _nobody does, not when they’re so hopeless_.

“Julian,” Garak says, voice firm and commanding and Julian’s mouth snaps shut, a small blush blooming across his cheeks. “Let me see you.” Julian nods a short, abrupt motion, eyes finally meeting Garak’s, glinting sapphire blue in the warm lighting. Garak purses his lips, his exhale fanning across Julian’s face, and Julian searches his eyes for something, _anything _beyond the mask of professional curiosity carefully constructed on his face.

“I assume you’ve taken this news to Captain Sisko?” Garak asks, tensing slightly at the way Julian bristles and slowly cards his fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe the anger flashing behind his hazel eyes.

“He doesn’t care, says he’d rather it happen that way than surrender,” Julian replies, inhaling sharply as the anger and desperation barrel into him anew, eyes shining with emotion, jaw clenched. “But that’s nine hundred billion lives lost, Garak, I can’t — how can he expect me to _okay _with that?!” He steps back from Garak in favour of pacing the length of Garak’s shop, eyebrows furrowed and eyes blazing. “I may be genetically enhanced but I’m a doctor first and foremost, and I will _not _sit idly by while innocent people lose their lives!” His voice cracks, hands slamming down on a nearby counter as his shoulders hunch, head dipped. Garak does nothing but blink at his outburst, and Julian feels a spark of rage flash through him at his composure, striding towards him, his fists colliding with Garak’s chest, eyes wet and shining. 

“Come, my dear,” Garak hushes, taking hold of Julian’s shoulders and pulling him against him once more, stunned confusion washing through him as he feels the fight drain out of Julian, shoulders slumping and body falling into the bulk of his body. 

“I don’t know what to _do_, Elim,” Julian confesses, voice hushed and quiet, dejected in a way Garak hasn’t heard in a long while, and the use of his given name makes his chest ache, a reminder of a luxury he no longer has access to. 

“War is rarely simple, Julian,” Garak replies, fingers splayed over the expanse of Julian’s back, holding him firmly. Julian shakes against him, small, aborted movements, and Garak hears the wet inhale of a breath.

“You think I don’t know that? You seem to forget that I’m no longer the same naïve young man you met six years ago.” Garak allows his eyes to fall closed momentarily, basking in the warmth Julian radiates, the feeling of his hair against his cheek, his scent achingly familiar, forever engrained in his memory.

“No, you are not,” he whispers, “but you are still every bit as kind, as compassionate, as you were back then. I fear you fail to realise just how _good _you are, my dearest.” Julian’s eyes squeeze shut, bottom lip drawn between his teeth as he stifles a choked sob, tears rolling down his cheeks to collect at the bottom of Garak’s ridges. He’s _missed _this, more than he could ever admit to himself, and he briefly wonders how different things would be if they hadn’t broken it off, how much simpler. Julian is pulling back before he even realises, hands cupping Garak’s cheek as he slots his mouth over Garak’s, lips pressing together firmly. Garak’s mouth is cool, malleable under his own, and Julian can’t help but press himself further into the kiss, a hand clutching desperately at the back of Garak’s head, fingers curled into the black strands, scared he might disappear. The kiss is gentle but firm, all soft presses of lips, no clashing of tongue or teeth, tender in a way Garak never knew he missed until this moment. Julian’s breath hitches at the wet slide of their lips, and Garak grapples with his self-control, finally finding the discipline within himself to pull back, to put a respectable amount of distance between their bodies. 

“Elim,” Julian whines, attempting to close the space between them, hands reaching for contact, for more of the intoxicating press of bodies, craving the way his mind falls blissfully silent when pressed against him. Garak shakes his head, lips tingling with residual warmth, and he takes a steadying breath, attempts to regain his composure. 

“No, Julian,” he replies, voice stern, “you’re not thinking clearly right now. You’re upset and angry, and you _will_ come to regret this.” 

“I won’t. Oh, gods, believe me, Garak, I won’t.” Garak raises an eye ridge, unconvinced, and Julian runs a hand through his hair, tongue darting out to lick across his lips, leaving Garak momentarily transfixed by the movement. “I miss you,” Julian continues, statement simple but raw, and Garak curses his innate ability at rendering him off guard. “It all makes _sense _now! We’re all — we could all _die_, Garak, and I don’t want to spend one moment looking back and thinking about all the times I _could have _had you, all the things I never got to tell you. I’ve already seen you die once, Elim, and if it happens again, I want to know I spent every minute I feasibly could at your side.” For the second time in his life, Elim Garak is rendered effectively speechless, mouth opening and closing, words failing him as he takes in the sheer sincerity in Julian’s eyes, the determination in his posture, the stubbornness in the slight upward tilt of his jaw. 

“I still fail to see why you care for me so much,” Garak finally settles on, old insecurities rearing their head, “you could feasibly have your pick of any person on this station.” Julian’s eyes soften and he closes the space between them, hands cupping Garak’s ribcage fiercely, fingers biting into the toughened skin.

“Yes, I suppose I could. But I’m choosing _you_, Elim. It’s _always _been _you_. The moment we worked out these damned statistics I could think of nothing else but being at your side. I’m just sorry it took such a drastic event for me to realise that.” Garak’s body relaxes slightly under Julian’s hands, and he leans in, forehead resting against Julian’s, _chufa _digging into Julian’s smooth skin. Julian’s head still swam with countless possibilities, numbers and statistics alike, but he’d be damned if he didn’t fight for this, fight despite the odds. Garak hums softly, a small rumble spreading throughout his chest, and Julian finds a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, a hand coming to press against Garak’s chest, feeling the vibrations against his palm. His eyes droop closed, fatigue slamming into him now that he finally feels _safe_, wrapped in strong arms that Julian knows will protect him. A finger under his chin rouses him from the brink of sleep, and Garak’s voice is soft, fond.

“Would you care to retire to my quarters, beloved? I fear we could both desperately use the rest.” He asks, the old endearment falling easily off his tongue once more and Julian smiles, happiness sprouting through despair and desperation like honeysuckle through brick as they part, hands loosely entwined as Garak locks up his shop, the bell chiming on their way out. The promenade is just as alive as it was when Julian first entered, humming with noise and activity, and Garak momentarily pauses, a smile threatening to bloom across his face as he brings a hand to trace the indentation of a _chufa_, _his chufa_, on Julian’s forehead. Julian laughs softly, pressure in his chest easing, and tugs Garak’s hand to lead him towards the habitat ring, committing the moment to his memory. He pauses by the viewport and prays to the prophets, the aliens in the wormhole, whoever or whatever they may be, for the protection of _Deep Space Nine_, for the lives and inhabitants of the entire alpha quadrant. 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are incredibly appreciated :) 
> 
> Tumblr: hanjisans.tumblr.com


End file.
